To Sleep, Perchance to Dream
Wherein Our Heroine
Skirts the Edge of Nightmare.
John and I have entirely different sleep
habits. John sleeps lightly and fitfully, and I tend to drop into a torpor that
is only one step away from a coma. He does not remember his dreams, whereas I
often do.
These differences
tend to lead to wildly different morning habits and attitudes. John always
seems to rev up to full alertness faster than I do, whereas I shamble about,
blinking and wincing at the light like some critter whose rock has been turned
over. I have always been this way. My parents teased me when I was a child,
calling me "Grandma Murd" as I sleepwalked through as much of my morning routine
as I could.
John envies the
abyss I live in for a substantial portion of my life, descents that are often
bookended by vacations into the weirder corners of the subconscious. But my
dreams have been a little too real lately. I have woken in the last few
mornings having to laboriously tease reality out of the matted scurf of my dream
state. I have had panicked moments before I remember that cherished people have
not died, that seventeen cats are not starving to death on my watch, and that I
am not being chased by scary people who mean me
ill.
This morning, waking up
from a bureaucratic nightmare of personalities and paranoia which inexplicably
included me having a horrible headcold, I even hacked and honked for a few
minutes before I realized it was the memory of my dream-state, not my sinuses,
which were causing my
catarrh.
I am not sure I am to
be envied here.
Posted: Wednesday - February 16, 2005 at 08:30 AM
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